Gambit (A Gun Frontier sequel)
by Helen1969
Summary: Once upon a time two shabby drifters and one skanky ho were left staring at the sky watching as Tochiro's sister was whisked away by airship only minutes after her rescue. Determined to get her back and put a stop to the Organisation, our "heroes" are now on the hunt for a ship - and a crew. First stop: Traders' Fork's only Bar, Bonk and Grill, run by former crewman of Harlock's...
1. Chapter 1

_Author's (brief) note:_

 _Spring's here, I'm feeling frivolous, and more than a little mischievous! Enjoy...!_

* * *

 _For those who missed it: Gun Frontier featured Harlock and Tochiro wandering around the Old West having some totally Not Safe For Work adventures whilst trying to track down Tochiro's sister - a delicate little thing who's apparently a master swordsmith._

 _(Don't blame me... I didn't write it!)_

 _Along the way they come up against the dastardly Organisation, which appears to be trying to take over the world (tm). Let's see if Our Heroes can get their act together long enough to stop them..._

 _No. I wouldn't bet on them either. But you never know..._

 _Now: Once upon a time, in the West... (or, about 1875. Give or take a Leijiverse timeline or three)_

* * *

Traders' Fork.

It squatted like a carbuncle lost somewhere along the coast between San Francisco and Los Angeles. A tiny pimple of a port not even marked on the map. Calling it a town was too generous: it was a collection of rough shacks built of driftwood, as transient as those who passed through it. A collection of drifters either washed up by the tides of the Pacific into its sheltered bay, or sauntering in on bony nags barely a breath away from the knacker's yard.

The gold fevers tended to pass it by in favour of the bigger cities. No roads led there. But if you drifted in on the tide or rode in on the dusty winds, down on your luck and thinking there was nothing worse the world could throw at you, chances are within the day you'd be quickly disabused of that notion. As well as relieved of anything even remotely of value.

In Traders' Fork, everything was for sale. Not necessarily by the person who thought they owned the item in question. And if you could survive the dusty spaces between the tumbledown buildings that passed - barely - for streets - there were places that would relieve you of your cash or possessions in a marginally less violent manner, in exchange for booze, food, sex, a bed - or a chance to turn your luck around.

One of these places was one of the more robust buildings not far from the harbour. Just far enough away so that the stink of rotting seaweed, fish and the sewage which poured into the bay via one of the two streams didn't intrude too much on the stench of stale tobacco smoke, stale beer, cheap whiskey and cheap whores that hovered inside the doors. This building had miraculously survived two large earthquakes, and seventeen owners in the past five years.

Its present owner, as dusk fell over the town and some of its less savoury clientele began to arrive, was seated at a circular baize table in a corner, a bottle of genuine scotch whiskey to his left, a half-full tumbler next to it. He held cards in his right hand, had a buxom brunette perched on his left knee, his left hand comfortably tucked into her lace-trimmed decolletage and around one plump breast, and a cigar clamped firmly in the side of his mouth, which so far he'd yet to light. Like the other two men at the table he was well dressed. His black knee length coat thrown casually over the back of his chair showed barely a speck of dust, his ruffled silk shirt was pristine white, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal brawny, tanned arms dusted with wiry gold hairs - like his broad chest, somewhat at odds with his attire. His right forearm bore the outline of a skull and crossbones and the word "Arcadia" on a sun-faded red scroll underneath it.

Under a wide brimmed flat black hat, his hair was also blond - sun-lightened and curling down to the top of his collar. His shirt was unbuttoned slightly, revealing a glimpse of still more short gold hair, currently being explored by the deft fingers of his brunette companion. He was clean shaven, apart from long, thick, neatly trimmed sideburns which curved down to his chin, and his face wasn't handsome - he had the rough, wary look of a dockside brawler on the wrong side of thirty. But a close glance would have revealed little to no fat on that muscled torso, the white silk was stretched over rock hard biceps, and the black pants fitted snugly, outlining hard, lean muscle on his thighs when he shifted position, briefly repositioning the brunette.

'You gonna just look at those cards all evening, son, or get round to making your call before the rest of us die of old age?' The speaker was an old man, short, thickset with a neatly trimmed white beard. A ripple of laughter from a gathering group near the table greeted his teasing.

The blond man grinned, and shifted his cigar neatly over to the other side of his mouth with a practiced shift of his tongue. He removed his left hand from its resting place on the brunette's bosom, and reached for chips from the considerably large pile in front of him. 'Sorry, LeVary. I just gotta see that hand.' He flicked two hundreds onto the pile in the middle of the table. 'Call.' His hand tipped back the brim of his hat as he sat back in his seat, revealing blue eyes with a hard glint in them at odds with his amiable tone. A wicked, white scar stood out starkly against his tanned skin, cutting his right eyebrow in two. Completing the image, he wore a large gold hoop in his right earlobe.

'Too much for me,' the only other player still holding a hand placed his cards on the table and began gathering his remaining chips.

''Going so soon?' The bar's owner waved over a long-legged red-head wearing little more than most women considered underwear. 'At least enjoy some of our other delights - the evening's barely begun…' He smiled around his cigar as the mark stared into an impressive amount of flesh floating on top of a tight black corset, and accepted being led to the bar to begin being fleeced of what remained to him. He turned his attention back to the game, and the prospect of a considerable profit for the evening. 'Now - where were we?'

'Fine. You think you have me?' LeVary laughed and placed his cards face down in front of him. With both hands he pushed his entire stack into the middle of the table. 'All in. Let's see whether you've got the cards to match your stones, lad.'

There was a murmur from the small crowd gathered around the table watching the game.

The bar's owner shrugged. 'Suits me.' He didn't bother to move his chips, and laid out his cards. 'Two pair.'

'Ha!' Levary laid out his full house. 'I knew you were bluffing…'

A hard, callused hand flattened his as it reached for the pile. 'Not so fast.' He laid down the ace of spades. The ace of clubs. 'Aces.' Ace of diamonds, ace of hearts. 'And aces.' He released his opponent's hand with a grin. 'Nice doin' business with ya.'

LeVary stared at the cards, then at his nemesis, and sighed. 'Ah well. Maybe next time?' He tipped his hat as he stood up, and sauntered away into the crowd, which was dispersing now that the excitement appeared to be over for the time being.

The owner sat back in his seat, and gave his lap warmer a pat on the bottom. 'Tidy up for me, Luna, would ya?' He switched his cigar back to the other corner again. 'Start workin' 'em once they've had a few more. LeVary'll pick out the more likely marks keen to fleece an old man with more money than brains.' He tossed his fifth card down onto the table. The jack of spades. He'd given it a bit more of a flick than he'd intended, and it slithered off the four aces and fluttered to the floor. With a muttered curse, he bent down to pick it up.

There was a metallic click next to his left ear, and he froze, his fingers barely touching the upturned, smirking face of the knave. 'Still parting fools from their money?' The muzzle of the pistol was cold against his cheek.

'You know, if I owe you money…'

'You owe me a lot of things, Jones.' The muzzle of the pistol tapped his cheek slowly. 'Stand up, slowly, keep your hands where I can see 'em.'

He obeyed, a puzzled frown building around his well chewed cigar. 'I know that voice…' He sniffed. 'Man - I don't know that _smell_ though - what _is_ that? Fermented horse shit?'

'Could be. I've kind of lost track over the past few months.'

The voice had a deep, sarcastic drawl. The accent was unplaceable, but it was a voice he knew. All too well… ' _Captain_?!' He just couldn't keep the incredulous note out of his voice. He turned round.

Oh yeah. He knew that damned voice. And that unkempt mop of dark hair that the bastard never could keep from falling into his eyes. It was currently buried under a shapeless wide hat held together with bullet holes that - like most of what its owner was wearing - had seen better days. The hat shaded eyes he knew were a dark sherry brown, but didn't quite hide the scars that scored both cheeks. Or that smug, shit-eating smirk he remembered. He quickly took in the tattered green jacket, sun faded and grimy over a shirt that might have been blue once, but now hovered somewhere between sand and ash. He added to the list of fashion atrocities a pair of canvas pants that may or may not have been brown when they were made, over scuffed, worn boots better suited to the prairie than the deck of a ship. Dust caked his clothes, and filled the sun-drawn creases of his face where it was visible making him look considerably older than his twenty-eight years.

And he was staring down the barrel of a surprisingly - considering the state of its owner - well maintained colt held in a gloved hand.

That smug, mirthless smirk grew even bigger. 'Now that I have your undivided attention, Aristotle - where's my fucking ship?'


	2. Chapter 2

_For Pollywantsa... for comments, laughter, inspiration and a shared love of the absurd!_

* * *

Aristotle Jones was not used to sharing his creature comforts with others. Well, not unless they were of the feminine persuasion, spectacularly well-upholstered and happy to share a bathtub.

The man stepping out of the extravagant wooden edifice which occupied the centre of the sturdy bathhouse behind the Bar Arcadia at the moment was most definitely masculine, barely tolerated the owner of said bathtub sharing the room with him, and was as skinny as a reed.

'What the hell have you been doing for the past few years?' Ari looked the walking assemblage of skin and bone up and down with a look on his face partway between disgust and despair. 'You have _heard_ of food, right? You know, stuff you put in one end and cra-'

'Did you keep my chest as well as the money you got from the insurers?' his captain asked him acidly. That annoying sarcastic drawl hadn't suffered any in the last couple of years, Ari thought.

'The boys hauled it in whilst you were still soaping off in the steam.' He jumped to one side to avoid a particularly bony hip that looked as though it could go through walls with only a little encouragement. 'What the hell have you been living on?'

'Horsemeat, mostly.' The voice was muffled as its owner had his head buried in an old sea chest, and was rummaging through it, his bony ass sticking up like a rabbit digging a hole. 'Ah!' He came up holding a red shirt, and a black waistcoat smothered in gold embroidery. Those were laid on one side and he dove back in, this time coming up with a pair of cream pants and a pair of salt-stained, well-worn sea boots. 'At least you didn't either purloin or sell my clothes.'

'Wouldn't wear them on a bet, and couldn't find anyone colour blind enough to take 'em off my hands,' Ari snapped back. 'You always had atrocious taste in clothes, Frankie.' He gave his former captain another once over. 'And for fuck's sake put them on - the sight of your bony ass and scrawny chest is putting me off my dinner.'

His captain had put the lid back down on the sea chest and was now sitting on it, mercifully with pants on to cover his pipecleaner thin legs, to pull his boots on. With modesty now intact, he pulled on the shirt over his head. His clothes, which used to fit his long frame extremely well - and so they should, Ari mused, since if the bastard had one extravagance that wasn't his ship, it was his duds - hung on him as through they'd been placed on a pole. 'Gawd… if your mother ever catches sight of you, she'll have me strung up from the nearest yardarm,' he muttered. He sniffed. 'How come you've been scrubbing for over an hour with two changes of water and I can still smell something?' He looked around the interior of the bath house. Nope… his boys had been as good as their word and taken the captain's stinky duds out whilst he was immersed in hot water. By now they should have been safely consigned to a bonfire. Then he noticed the draught coming from the now open door.

He looked down, into a pair of thick lensed glasses perched on top of a goofy overbite he'd hoped never to see again. Its owner was carrying a hat almost as perforated as his captain's had been, and the whole package was wrapped in a filthy brown rag that smelled as though its owner had been rolling in the midden heap to the edge of town.

Actually, he had to amend that assessment. There were pieces of rotting kelp and what looked like the remains of the refuse thrown out from one of the chinese noodle sellers who peddled their wares in the town. 'Oh, dear god… I'd kind of hoped when he turned up here alone that he'd either lost you, or you'd had the decency to get killed…' Ari groaned.

'Is that how your old friends greet you?'

The voice was female, with a low, whiskey burr to it that bypassed his better judgement and went straight to his cock. Something his eyes were in total agreement with when the speaker walked out of the shadows and into the candlelight. Tall, in a plain, serviceable dress that - judging from the way parts of her jiggled very nicely when she swayed towards him - didn't hide a corset. Long blonde hair fell unbound all the way down to a very nicely rounded bottom. The bold eyes that looked him up and down held a sharp intelligence that instantly put him on his guard.

His mouth, as usual, had other ideas. 'Hel-lo gorgeous - and where have _you_ been hiding all my life?' He leered at her.

She sighed, and turned her back on him. 'In the nursery, I suspect,' she said over her shoulder as she unfastened her dress and let it slip to the floor. 'Tochiro - I think Harlock's left us enough water - why don't we take advantage of it? You do my back and I'll…'

Ari coughed, and didn't even try to resist as his captain - Harlock - placed a firm hand on his shoulder and pushed him out of his own bath house. 'Oh god… seriously?' Mercifully the door shut before he had to wipe any images off his brain, but the damage had already been done just with the suggestion. 'Him… and that?'

'Just leave it, Aristotle,' Harlock ordered quietly, but firmly. 'Now - why don't we give them some alone time, and you can grab a couple of bottles of your best, and we'll go have ourselves a little chat?'

* * *

'So let me get this straight,' Aristotle sat back in his favourite over-stuffed armchair and blew a smoke ring. He held a cigar in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other, and had his feet up on the table. And if the furniture bore the tell tale signs of water immersion and a bit of salt damage… well, who'd notice? It was amazing what washed up on the shore. 'You took off in the night without a word - to _anyone_ , I should add, vanishing with that short-arsed, four-eyed little dwarf. We looked for you everywhere. Every whorehouse, bar, outhouse and undertaker from Mexico to Canada.'

'I left a note,' Harlock said, in between shovelling mouthfuls of a pork stew into his mouth.

'Yeah? Well we never found it.'

'Not my fault.'

Aristotle wanted to strangle the scrawny little sod, and to hell with the consequences. 'Not your… oh for fuck's sake - why do I bother? I mean, why would any of us care that our captain had seemingly taken leave of his senses, and eloped in the night off the coast of America with the ugliest damn guy we'd ever seen, who he'd only known a matter of weeks? And who the first time you met tried to slice your overly pretty face off?' More shovelling. Understandable though, he looked as though he'd not had a square meal in months. 'We did search, ya know.'

'Only because you were terrified of what my mom would do to you if you showed up without me,' Harlock pointed out. He sat back in his chair and belched.

Aristotle winced. 'God, she'd be the first to point out your manners were a casualty of whatever you've been doing. Thankfully, I have it on good authority she's back in the Atlantic, so we've got a few months head start.'

Harlock's turn to flinch. 'Don't tell me she's sailing with dad again… I thought they weren't speaking?'

Aristotle pulled a face and stubbed out his cigar. 'They still aren't, last I heard, but there's a hefty price on his head after that stunt he pulled in Jamaica…'

'Ah. I wonder if she'll break her record for the number of times she collects that?' Harlock reached for a glass and the brandy bottle, and poured himself a far too generous amount, ignoring Aristotle's pointed stink-eye. 'Hopefully she won't wait to launch the rescue until he's got the rope around his neck this time… So where's my ship, Ari - and the rest of my crew?'

Aristotle tugged on the hairs of his left hand sideburn. 'We lost the ship in a hurricane - musta been about eighteen months after you left. Wiped out every ship in port that day, it did. I tried my hand at prospectin' but I got claim jumped, and whilst I was recoverin' from the bullet holes in my back, I realised I could make more money taking it off those who were doing the digging, so I came back here and took this joint off the idiot running it in a poker game. Yattaran's around here somewhere - one of my lasses takes food round every other day or so. He and Maji set up shop inland a bit, doing carpentry and repairs. Ain't seen hide nor hair of the rest since we split.' He only just caught the brief look that flashed across Harlock's face before the younger man downed his brandy in one. 'Ah, shit, Frankie - what the hell did you think would happen? That we'd all just be waitin' here for ya to come back, stridin' onto the dock with ya cloak flappin' in the breeze and telling us to set sail?'

'I'd hoped there'd be some chance of picking up a crew and a ship. And I need both in a hurry.'

'So - you figure you can just walk into town and back into our lives like nothing's happened and we'll be all square?' Ari slammed his glass down onto the table and swung his legs down, moving so fast to get out of his chair and loom over the lounging parasite sitting sipping his best brandy that the brat didn't even have time to put his own glass back down. 'It ain't that easy!' he yelled into Harlock's right ear.

The cold, sharp touch of steel against his cheek froze him in place before he could do or say more. 'Hey! Back off, blondie.'

'So much for those idiots I pay to watch this place,' Aristotle muttered. He pulled away from Harlock and sneered down at his attacker. 'Tochiro-kun.'

'Need me to adjust this guy's attitude for him, Harlock?' the little guy called out in his screechy, nasal voice. God, Aristotle had forgotten how badly the little rat's voice grated on his nerves, like chalk on a slate…

'Nah. I need him. Besides, he's just blowing off steam.'

Aristotle swatted the curved blade out of his face and glared at the beaming little shrimp. 'Back off yourself, shorty,' he snarled. 'I ain't forgotten Osaka yet.'

'It appears,' said that liquid gold female voice from behind him, 'that you men have something of a history. Would anyone care to make the introductions?'

The golden-haired beauty sashayed into view, and Aristotle took a good, long, hard (very much yes to both, he thought with a silent groan since his pants were suddenly way too tight). One of his men must have been talked into lending some clothes, because the woman was now wearing a tight-fitting shirt that hugged her breasts with indecent intimacy, her buttons undone to revel a very nice valley in between two swelling hills. The shirt was tied at her tiny waist, and the pants were under far too much strain covering a fine ass. She was wearing a wide brimmed hat that hid her hair, and for a moment, he could have sworn she looked familiar…

She swept the hat off, and her hair cascaded down to the base of her spine. The moment passed, but the image remained just tantalisingly out of reach.

'Aristotle Jones - Sinonoura. Try not to kill each other,' Harlock drawled. 'Tochiro you already know.'

'Yeah. Sadly.' Aristotle glared at the little guy who ignored him, his eyes fixed on the plates of food that Ari's staff had yet to clear away. 'Oh for crying out loud - have it at it. You probably would anyway.'

'Don't mind if I do!' Tochiro replied gleefully. He set to stuffing his face with even more gusto than Harlock had. 'Hey - this must be the first edible meal we've had in months!'

'Yeah… about that…' Ari turned his attention back to his former captain.

Harlock shrugged. 'Not much to tell. Tochiro was looking for a group of his people who'd settled in the west. We eventually found out the entire colony was wiped out - only a handful of survivors.'

'One of whom is my sister!' Tochiro called out between mouthfuls. 'And she's been kidnapped by the guys Sinonoura used to work for - she was tracking us down to find out why two strange guys were asking questions. Only now she's with us, and we're after the bad guys. Who've got some seriously weird shit going on, manufacturing advanced weapons, and we've got to rescue my sister and stop them!'

Ari blinked, slowly. 'Does he ever slow down?' He brushed damp crumbs off the front of his shirt and glared at the little man responsible.

'Not noticeably,' Harlock drawled. 'But he's right. We need to stop these guys and rescue Shizuku.'

Ari made his way back to his chair and sat down. 'Huh. She's that pretty?' He sniggered when Harlock buried his nose in his snifter and ignored the question. 'That'll be a yes, then…' His eyes narrowing, he looked the woman up and down again. 'You… You really look familiar - just wish I could place where from.' He picked up the hat from where she'd dropped it on his desk and popped it on her head. When she raised a hand to remove it he stopped her, his fingers closing on her narrow wrist. 'Oh no you don't. Let me look…' he sat back again, a frown on his brow. Then he snapped his fingers. 'Got it - San Francisco, about two years back. Only it wasn't you - it was a guy. Young. Well dressed, flash. I'll remember the name in a minute…'

She pulled her hand free and yanked off the hat. 'That wouldn't be a good idea.'

'Lady,' he drawled, imitating his captain's lazy-ass manner, 'I don't give a rat's ass. But I don't like mysteries, and you're a conundrum... ' he snapped his fingers 'Aha! Snell. That was it. Edward Snell. Something to do with arms shipments - kid looked younger and even prettier than Franklin here, but he was gettin' around a bit. We bumped into him in a couple of towns further inland as well, whilst we was looking for you, captain. I remember coz Yattaran overheard him talking once and thought the kid knew his stuff… Cut your hair, wrap your tits up tight and put you in a nice suit, you'd be a dead ringer for him. Relative of yours?'

'No.' She tilted her nose as though daring him to argue with her. And he didn't miss the look that passed between Harlock and Tochiro behind her back.

'Darlin', I'd hate to sit across from you at the table over cards,' he told her. 'Now - it's been nice chattin' with ya all. Frankie - take yer stuff if you want it. I sure as hell don't. You can stay in one of the rooms for a couple of days - I'll be generous, you can have half rates.'

Another meaningful look, this time between all three.

'Thing is, we don't have any money,' Tochiro began. He ducked the paperweight Harlock launched at his head. 'Hey!'

'I told you not to say anything,' Harlock growled at him.

'Hey!' Ari glared at Harlock. 'Throw yer own damn property at his head. And whaddya mean you got nothing?' He jabbed a finger at the younger man. 'Are you tellin' me that you waltzed into town, not just expectin' to pick up where you left off, but that you don't even have so much as a pot to piss in? I know how much you took with you.'

'We were robbed,' Tochiro told him helpfully. 'A lot.'

'He's the sneakiest, most annoyingly successful smuggler in the bloody Pacific between here and Macao!' Ari could hear his own voice rising. 'How the hell does anyone get the drop on him?' He slumped in his chair. 'You've not just lost your manners, your style, your money and your ship - you've lost your bloody mind out there. What happened? All that desert sun bake your brain?'

'He's gotta point, ya know…' Tochiro offered helpfully, waving a drumstick at his friend. 'He just doesn't keep his mouth shut,' he continued. 'One time we were on this stagecoach, and the robbers were going to leave us tied up thinking we were too poor to rob, and Harlock just has to open his big mouth and ask why they hadn't searched us!'

'Hey!'

'Oh really… I don't recall that being the excuse you two jokers offered up at the time,' Sinonoura interjected smoothly, looking from one to the other. Harlock shifted in his chair and Tochiro just bit into his chicken leg.

Aristotle sniggered. 'You know - kind of reminds me of that time in Singapore…'

'I was _fourteen…'_ Harlock growled.

'You were _hammered…'_ Ari corrected with a smirk.

'You were in Singapore?' Tochiro's eyes lit up. 'Hey - is it true about that trick the girls do there with the…'

'Ari - I'll take a room. On my own. Call it a down payment on losing my damn ship.' Harlock pushed his chair back and stood up, making a grab for a whiskey bottle in one smooth move. 'You two can sort yourselves out.'

'Second floor. Take your pick - it's a slow night,' Ari told him, a speculative gleam in his own blue eyes. 'Want me to send something warm up for later?'

'Just supper,' Harlock snapped as he walked out.

'Was it something we said?' Tochiro asked through a mouthful of chicken. Sinonoura ignored him and leaned towards Aristotle.

'So…' she asked, taking care he got a good eyeful. 'How long have you known Harlock ?'

* * *

A soft knock on the door awakened Harlock from a troubled nap. With his arms behind his head and his ankles crossed, he lay on the bed and stared up at a crack which meandered across the ceiling in between a meadow of mould patches. 'Enter'

The door opened rather quietly, considering it looked as though it had been made out of old ships' planking, warped and barnacled. He sat up a little straighter as he caught sight of long blonde hair - a deeper shade of gold than Sinonoura's. A girlish figure in a red basque trimmed with black lace, the skirt to which was barely more than a bustle topping black fishnet stockings. Her arms were covered past the elbow with long black satin gloves, which on a closer glance had seen better days, being sun-faded and water stained in places.

'Wrong room, darling. Unless you brought supper.'

He hadn't looked much below the balcony, because the clatter of a tray and plates on the bedside cabinet suggested that was exactly what she'd brought. 'Ah. Sorry.'

'Mr Aristotle sent me. With his compliments.' Her voice was carefully composed, but he detected a slight tremor in it that caught his attention. He sat up fully and took a longer look - and although she was blushing under his gaze, a determined tilt of her chin and icy blue eyes suggested this one wasn't quite as demure as she was pretending to be. The growing blush as he deliberately let his gaze wander over the exposed skin of her shoulders and the tops of her breasts, a narrow waist and very, very long legs, told another story.

She took a step back as his eyes narrowed. 'How old are you?'

Her sharp, stubborn chin tilted even higher. 'Eighteen.'

'Bullshit!' He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Interestingly, he didn't have to stare down at her too much. She was tall for a girl - and if she was as young as he thought, she still had some growing to do. 'Try harder,' he told her, not unkindly.

'Fifteen,' she blurted. 'Or maybe sixteen. I don't know for sure. But please - don't send me away. I need the money. The boss - Mr Aristotle - he said you were kind, that it wouldn't be so bad…'

'I'm gonna wring Mr Boss Jones's damned neck for him when I get hold of him,' he snarled. The girl took another two steps back, eyes widening. 'Oh, for heaven's sake. I don't molest little girls. Annoying whoremasters who think I can be guilted into breaking in his new girls are another matter entirely.'

'I'm not a little girl.'

Wonderful. She even pouted prettily. He pointed to the bed. 'Sit.' She sat, hands on her lap, twiddling her fingers, which were calloused and cracked. 'This isn't one of his jokes is it? Playing me for a sucker with some case-hardened "virgin"? Because playing a player - never a good move.'

'I was working in the kitchens, but it pays sod all. And the men try and grab me anyway, so what's the point? Might as well get paid for what they want to take for free.' She was looking around the room - whether for a quick exit or to rip him off, he hadn't quite decided. 'You know - that Winchester is in a dreadful state. Don't you take care of your weapons?'

'The last couple of years I've been cleaning my guns every night,' he muttered.

'Well that explains a lot.' He gave her a sharp glance, not sure if she'd picked up on the double entendre or not. The beatific grin she have him said yes, and he found himself grinning back. 'Know much about guns?'

'Enough to know that thing'll go off in your hand if you try to fire it in that state.'

'For the record, I took it off a guy who tried to shoot me as we were riding into town. Seemed a shame to let it go to waste.' He walked over to his sea chest, currently lurking by the far wall, rummaged around and came up with an old pair of pants and a shirt. 'Here!' he tossed them over and she caught them with a puzzled frown.

'What are these for?'

'You. More comfortable that that whaleboned abomination you can barely breathe in.'

'Aren't I pretty enough for you?'

Great. Now he had female pique to deal with. 'Too damned pretty, and I don't need any ideas.'

'But-'

'Fifteen.' He raised a finger to forestall any further argument, and lifted the lid of the serving dish with his free hand. Behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of a stomach growling. 'Want some?'

'I'm not supposed to…' Rustling noises and a grunt or two, and a word that shouldn't be part of a pretty young girl's vocabulary. 'We eat later, once the guests are in bed.'

'Well, it's my time, and I get to set the rules, so if I want you to eat with me, how can your boss argue?' He made the mistake of looking up - straight into the full length mirror. 'Good god.'

She hurriedly finished pulling the shirt over her head and tied it around her middle. The pants fit snugly enough although she'd need a belt. This time when she turned to face him, she was trembling slightly. 'Those are sabre cuts,' he said softly. The scars on her back - two of them - had been unmistakeable. 'How long…'

'Our settlement was attacked when I was little.' She took the plate he offered her and began eating, making use of the utensils in a dainty way that suggested she'd been taught nice manners once. He knew the feeling…

'There's a lot of that going around,' he murmured. 'What's your name?' She mumbled something through a mouthful that he could only just hear. 'Kate?'

She shook her head and sighed at him. 'No - Kei - 'K-e-i. It means "firefly".'

'I know what it means,' he said softly. He sat down next to her. 'Demo - anata, nihonjin ja nai…'

She looked up and narrowed her eyes. 'How do you…?'

'My friend's Japanese, and I've spent a lot of time there. This settlement… wouldn't be Samurai Creek would it?' He only just caught her plate before her knee jerk sent it flying. 'Easy, kid. I'm on your side. We're after the men behind that ourselves.' He waited but she seemed to have lost her appetite. 'I've heard enough to know how bad it was - especially for the women.'

'My adopted father - he hid me, but they found me anyway,' she whispered. She put down her knife and fork and her blue eyes looked straight into his. 'I always wore pants, so they didn't realise I was a girl, and they put me with the others. They made the men watch, whilst they… they…'

He knew better than to offer a shoulder to cry on, and after a moment she resumed her story, dry eyed. 'After, they took the women and girls away, but I tried to run when they started shooting. One of them liked to kill with a sword. He chased me and some others down and left us for dead.'

'With those injuries, how did you survive?' he asked gently.

'The Indians. They found me and looked after me for a couple of years. Then Mr Aristotle. He and his men were passing - they were trading with the indians, and when they left, I came back with them.'

'Yet he offered you work on your back?'

She shook her head. 'Actually, he tried to talk me out of it. At least until tonight.'

Harlock snorted, startling her. 'No - don't worry. I just realised the cocky bastard's playing his usual games. He knew damn well I wouldn't take advantage. In fact, I'm guessing he thinks I'll do his dirty work for him and talk you out of it.'

'Will you?'

He looked her over slowly, a gamine figure in his old cast-offs, looking more alluring in his tatty old shirt than she had in that ridiculous corset. Her chin had a tilt and a firmness that spoke of a stubborn streak. She'd survived events that had destroyed others he'd met over the last few months. 'Depends.' He pointed to the Winchester, resting against the table. 'Think you can clean and put that back together?'

'The Yellow Boy over there? Sure. And if I do?'

He liked her smile. Reminded him a lot of his mother's… 'I'm in the market for a crew - when I get a ship I'll be going after the organisation behind the massacre of your settlement. There's always a place for someone with guts and a level head. Can you shoot?'

She was already on her way to pick up the rifle, and he watched as she carefully checked it over, made it safe and found somewhere to sit. Wordlessly he offered her the oil and the rags he'd purloined earlier, taking a seat nearby and reaching for a spare rag and his pistol to keep her company.

'I can hit a squirrel or a rabbit with a rifle at twenty feet. Is that good enough?'

'Prove it tomorrow, and we might have a deal.'

He could clean his own weapon blindfolded, so he watched as she expertly stripped the rifle and began to clean it, tutting under her breath at the state the previous owner had left it in. 'What kind of ship did you have?' she asked.

Slightly distracted by the way she was rubbing the barrel up and down with one hand he took a moment to reply. 'Blockade runner. Side paddle with sail backup - three master. Sweet little thing, and fast as the wind...'

'Blockade? So you were a smuggler?'

'Smuggling… piracy…' he shrugged. 'Whatever pays.' He smiled wistfully. 'There's a freedom on the sea you don't get on land…'

'You miss it?' She struggled to pull back one stiff piece and he reached out to help her, and handed the stock back.

'All the time.' He hadn't realised until he said it how true it was, and the longing that came over him then was like a punch to the gut.

'Then why leave?'

'I made a promise.' He sniffed, as the slight trace of an acrid, woody smell reached his nose. 'Can you smell that?'

'Smell what?'

He sniffed harder. There was no mistake. 'Smoke!'

She looked around, slightly wild eyed. 'I don't… Wait! Mister!' she pointed.

Under the door was a gap between floorboards and the warped door. Through this, the first wisps of grey smoke curled into the room.


End file.
